


Ward of the Wall

by Blaiser, spankingfemme



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Bondage, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rape/Non-con Elements, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2018-12-12 06:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11731272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blaiser/pseuds/Blaiser, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spankingfemme/pseuds/spankingfemme
Summary: This story is an alternate path diverging around the beginning of S2 of Game of Thrones. The premise will be based off the show, but elements of book history will be sprinkled into the mix. This is a what if story where Roose decides to cast Ramsay out and send him packing to the Wall. What happens there won't be pretty! (WARNINGS! This fic is going to go dark places with themes of rape and other nasty things that the faint of heart may wish to avoid! Karma is a bitch, and it's time Ramsay pays the piper *evil grin*)





	1. Breaking the Ice

**Author's Note:**

> This is a combined effort between myself (who will be playing Ramsay Bolton and Samwell Tarley (alongside other characters we have yet to work into the story) and my lovely co-writer, Blaiser (who will be representing the depictions of Jon Snow, Ser Alliser Thorne, and Jeor Mormont as well as miscellaneous characters yet to be announced.)

 

Chapter One

Breaking the Ice

The frigid wind pierced through the layers of fur blankets Ramsay wore tightly wrapped about his person. He was swathed from head to toe hiding his slight form from view as his hooded head lulled from side to side following the sway of his horse's labored gait. He felt numb both inside and out where the once white-hot embers of embittered rage had smoldered to the contemplation of his life's misfortunes. Three and a half weeks of plodding towards his ultimate destination, the Wall, had taken much of the seething hatred Ramsay had initially felt to settle into the pit of his stomach lurching about like a flopping fish on dry land.

It was a show of politics his father had chosen as the stage to cut him completely from the Bolton legacy. The chamber had encompassed the judgmental faces of Weserosi lords and ladies awaiting restitution when Ramsay had strutted into the proceedings unaware of the reasoning for the call but recalling it odd that his father had held out a hand to halt him from rounding the table to sit beside him. It hadn't taken long for the dawning realization to creep in though as Roose proclaimed to all those watching that he was a just man who had heard their outcry. Ramsay was a bastard, but he was his kin, and would not be put to death for the charges levied against him. Instead, Roose had deferred that Ramsay be sent to the Wall as an alternative.

Ramsay had been stunned silent momentarily before unleashing a torrent of curses as soldiers moved in to flank and bodily remove him from the hall. Apparently Roose had already anticipated Ramsay's resistance having him manacled and placed upon a horse ready to ride him to his new destination. He had fought, but that only ended with a severe beating that left Ramsay curled in on himself gasping for air before being tossed back atop his steed to begin the long journey northward.

He hadn't resisted them again sensing that these men were itching for a reason to cut him down. No, it was better to quietly stew about the many ways that he would make them suffer when he returned. He wasn't meant for a place like the Wall, and once he was able to seize the opportunity, all those that stood against him he would see scream a symphony of pleas for mercy. Ramsay clung to the vestiges of his anger for some time, but the further north they travelled, the more his hope dwindled that the actuality of revenge was slim to none.

***

"Another damned bastard!" Ser Alliser almost spat out the words in contempt as he came storming out of his chambers, down the stairs and into the courtyard. He looked around as if searching for someone in particular, then rushed across the yard heading straight for Jon who was kneeling near the castle's southern gate next to a Clydesdale mare cleaning her hooves out with a pick.

"Just what we need; more fodder for the wildlings. When are they going to send us some real men instead of worthless whore's spawn!?" He came to a halt in front of Jon. Unaffected by the fact that the recipient of his insult knelt right before him, the older knight glared down into Jon's face with deep set eyes narrowed almost to slits, "Snow! Get up on that wall and keep a lookout; we're expecting company soon. Move your arse!"

He turned on his heel and started to walk away from Jon, but soon stopped and turned around again as if he had forgotten something important, "Roose Bolton's bastard is here to take the pledge," he stated as a smug smile crept on his face and into his voice, "Wasn't Lord Bolton with Robb Stark at the Twins, heh?"

Jon's eyes grew wide at the mention of his brother's murderer. Granting him no response, he lowered his head and bit his lip trying to hide the depth of his sorrow from the sharp gaze of his superior.

Ser Alliser's eyes sparkled gleefully, his lips curled in a satisfied smile to watch Jon's struggle, "Did you not hear me, boy?" he sneered pointing up at the southern wall as if Jon had forgotten where it was, "I said: Move your arse!"

On top of the wall, the wind blew cold and strong burning his cheeks to scarlet. Jon pulled his cloak tighter around him and breathed into his hands. Off in the distance he could make out the small Bolton delegation; a tiny black dot fighting its way against the headwind along the King's Road, past Moles Town's soiled and ragged outskirts, heading towards Castle Black. As the dot grew larger he was able to distinguish the riders from one another – seven in all, dressed in dark garments, flying high the flapping banner of the flayed man. Six riders rode forward in two columns flanking a smaller, cloaked figure in such an obtrusive manner it almost appeared as if they were escorting him to the gallows, and not to join the Night's Watch.

Although Jon had never met the man, he knew who he was just like he knew the name of almost every other son or daughter of Ned Stark's former allied Lords. Ramsay Snow, the only known bastard child of Roose Bolton, the turncloak, who had betrayed Robb at the Red Wedding to gain favor with the Lannisters. Jon had heard the rumors about Robb's death; that the Frey's had sewn the head of his dire wolf, Grey Wind, onto his corpse and paraded it around the keep. _Like a jest._ The thought made a lump form in Jon's throat but he swallowed it away.

Ramsay was a bastard like himself, and not responsible for the crimes of his father. Roose was a traitor and a murderer, but his son had, as far as Jon knew, not participated in the wedding and was therefore without blame (in that regard at least). Why Ramsay had been sent to the wall, Jon did not know nor did he care. What a man's crimes had been before he joined the brotherhood, mattered none once he had taken the pledge. Murderers, Thieves, Rapists.  _Bastards._  They all wore the same colour, black. They all swore the same oath.

A series of neighs and strained whinnies filled the air as the Bolton delegation neared the southern gate. Jon bent over the railing and eyed two of his brothers, Grenn and Pyp, busy shoeing horses below him. "You two!" Help me open the gates!" he yelled and hurried down the staircase to greet the new arrivals.

Ramsay was born to a peasant miller's widow making him no stranger to dealing with the cold of Westeros winters. But here, in this forsaken tundra, the bite of it clung to his limbs and face like a savage starving beast. Having endured weeks of increasing cold on their journey north, Ramsay was almost relieved to see the dreary fort's outline against the harsh backdrop of snow and freezing winds.

His gaze found itself drawn to the high rising wall of ice spreading out as far as the eye could see taking in its wonder despite the malice that roiled inside him to remain dour. Ramsay had heard stories about the Wall and had observed art depictions of its grandeur; who hadn't? But to actually see it... well, that was something else to take in entirely. The awe of such a spectacle though had faded in the several hours' ride it took to reach the castle, and by the time the Bolton ensemble was trotting up to the opening gates, Ramsay's face had once more resumed the sour scowl that he'd worn for the majority of his forced trip across the countryside.

He hadn't seen Jon shouting atop the bullwark, but his voice had resonated through the blast of wind that threatened to knock Ramsay from his horse. Ramsay had shot a disdainful glare skyward, but there had been no one there to receive it. This only festered a new wave of frustration to crop within Ramsay as the thick wooden doors spread open to accept its new visitors. Ramsay straightened uncomfortably. He may be a bastard, but he was still of noble lineage and those that perceived him now would know his station in the stance he presented himself in. After all, first appearances were everything were they not?

The heavy iron gates opened with a loud groan to receive the exhausted, windblown horsemen who came trotting in like sheep into a pen. Having barely made it inside the gates, the front soldier, a tall man with coal black eyes that matched his hair, jumped off his horse and walked up to Jon. "The bastard, Ramsay Snow, is here to join your ranks," he surveyed the courtyard before glancing back at Jon, "Where is Lord Commander Mormont? I bear a message from Lord Bolton."

"The Lord Commander is currently held up at The Shadow Tower, west of here," Jon explained, "We expect him back within the end of week. Ser Alliser Thorne is first Ranger and acting Lord Commander in his absence." He looked over the soldier's shoulder at the new arrival. Roose Bolton's offspring was a slender, pale-skinned youth around Jon's own age, square faced, with large, observant grey eyes made smaller by his angry squint and rich dark-brown hair that fell over his forehead in thick tousled locks.

 _How little he resembles his father_ , Jon thought and gave Ramsay a small smile, which he returned by straightening his back and thrusting his chin upward like an arrogant rooster taking stock of its coop. Jon held his gaze for a few seconds before shifting his eyes back to the soldier in front of him.

Jon was just about to propose that he fetch Ser Alliser himself when the knight suddenly appeared at the opposite end of the courtyard. Noticing the small cluster of men, he began walking towards them wearing his usual expression of irritation and impatience. "So... House Bolton finally decides to send us its men instead of flaying them." He came to a halt next to Jon, "How very generous of you! It's about time you provided your share."

The dark-haired soldier ignoring the provocation, held out his hand. In it was a small scroll, "A message from Lord Bolton." With one quick move Ser Alliser snatched the scroll from his hand and unfolded it. After having read the message in perturbed silence, he folded the paper back up and handed it to the soldier, "Tell Lord Bolton he has no say here. There will be no special treatment for bastards at Castle Black," he sneered whipping his head around to face Jon, "Any bastard." The soldier was just about to open his mouth to speak when Ser Alliser turned away with a loud snort, "Snow! Get your new  _friend_  situated, and report for sword practice in the morning."

Throughout the exchange shared between the men of the watch and his father's emissary, Ramsay's mood darkened considerably. Who was this man to question a missive sent not only by a lord, but the now highest-ranking lord in the North? He was in no way feeling amiable to the man that had thrown him away, but obviously his father had at least intended he get some accommodations from the remarks the crotchety miser advised to send back as a dismissal. That simply wasn't going to do.

Ramsay's gloved fists tightened pulling the manacle chains binding his wrists taught with his building rage. He imagined wrapping those steel ringlets around the geriatric knight's throat and cinching the life out of him. The thought of the man asphyxiating with a fearful bug-eyed stare brought about a smug smile to cross Ramsay's countenance. He guffawed out a humorless laugh and a sidelong snarl at Jon as the recruit moved forward to follow the old bird's direction. Ignoring Jon completely, Ramsay directed his narrowed sights back at Ser Alliser's retreating back growling condescendingly, "I know that word doesn't travel well around this desolate waste land, but surely you realize that you are not just insulting a lord's wishes but the newly appointed warden of the North? Do you really think he'll take your refusal well?"

Ser Alliser stopped dead in his tracks and turned around slowly, his face stiff with disbelief. For a moment he stood completely still as if Ramsay's words left him frozen to the spot. Then he walked up to the younger man's horse and grabbed its halter, "You forget your place, boy." Ser Alliser's voice was heavy with venom, his eyes narrowing into two angry slits, "You think I care about who your father is… you've got another thing coming!" With those words he grabbed Ramsay's ankle and pulled, dragging him to the ground with bone-slamming force.

Seeing the halt in the older man's gait had brought the haughty grin displayed on Ramsay's face to widen. His eyes were glistening with the glee of knowing his comment had ruffled the crow, but as Ser Alliser tore down what he saw to be a perfectly logical assessment of power structures and the respect he was due, Ramsay's smile had faded into an all-out grimace.

He had opened his mouth to argue further, but his voice left him in a grunt of surprise as he was yanked roughly from his mount. Ramsay gasped as the air was painfully knocked from his lungs and swiftly rolled to his side to avoid the now spooked horse's stomping feet. His mouth hung open staring up in wide-eyed astonishment to the affront this man afforded him before scrambling in a huff to his feet.

Gritting his teeth, Ramsay seethed his fury out with a lacerating glare that aimed daggers at Ser Alliser before he composed himself with a mercurial shift of attitude. The smile crept back on his face and his expression depicted amusement as Ramsay offered a mock bow that oozed contempt, "Do forgive my assumptions. It's become rather clear that you don't pay homage to the decrees of kings and lords alike. I will do well to keep this in mind for the duration of my stay." As he uttered these words, Ramsay had decided that before he left this frozen abyss, this man would learn why the Bolton motto was: O _ur blades are sharp_.

"You'd better," Ser Alliser's voice had dropped to a low throaty growl; a stormy glint was in his narrowed eyes as he stared down into Ramsay's face, "Or I'll wring your bastard neck myself and save the hangman the trouble of a noose." Ser Alliser's sneer turned into a vicious smile, ' _Bastard_.' Judging by a discrete twitch in the corner of Ramsay's eyes, the word had hit its mark.

He stood for a moment, savoring the sight of the younger man struggling to hold back his anger before turning and walking away. As he passed Jon, he stopped to face him. "You're responsible for this boy's training and teaching him some bloody manners. I suggest you try hard, Jon Snow, 'cause if he is to be punished, so will you," Leaning in close, he added in a whisper, "Just give me an excuse… _please._ "

Meeting the knight's smug gaze with a stern one, Jon nodded his head in understanding, "Aye." Seemingly pleased with himself, Ser Alliser then turned and walked away disappearing somewhere in the vicinity of his quarters. Jon watched him go before turning his gaze back to Ramsay, "That was Ser Alliser Thorne, first Ranger." With lips twisted in a small smile, he held out his hand in friendly greeting, "Hello Ramsay… my name is Jon Snow."

Ramsay's lip curled disdainfully regarding the other man's hand in disgust as if it were covered in feces. He didn't like being reminded of his status, and putting another bastard over him nettled Ramsay. He pointedly ignored Jon's friendly gesture turning to the departing Bolton escorts who were mounting their horses to leave. Ramsay shouted at them, "Aren't you forgetting something?" He thrust his manacled wrists out to them irritably.

The majority of the men acted as though they'd not even heard Ramsay address them as they continued trotting towards the opening gate while the last three men in the troupe paused exchanging glances with one another. A burly bearded soldier chuckled down from atop his horse relishing Ramsay's plight while another spat at him dismissively, "I think he'd want you to have them... you know, as a parting gift... bastard."

The other two men laughed at the immediate fury that flashed across Ramsay's face and his lack of verbal response to their continued jabs at his expense. Ramsay's jaw clenched and his nostrils flared with the impotency to react to the insults he was being made to endure at every turn since being stripped of his entitlements. Saying no more, the men turned their horses away spurring them out of Castle Black's gate without a second glance back. It was apparent that none of them felt any sort of pity for the discarded son of Roose Bolton.

Taking in a ragged breath to control the surging frustration that threatened to boil out of him like an overflowing cauldron, Ramsay turned steely eyes back to Jon. He was going to have to garner this man's help which meant he was going to have to be at least somewhat cordial no matter how upset this whole situation was making him. Ramsay swallowed lifting his chin as regally as a man could while dressed in prisoner chains. He forced a smile at Jon, "Well then. That went rather poorly. I don't suppose you can take me somewhere to get these removed, can you?"


	2. Getting Cozy

Chapter Two

Getting Cozy

_Clink-Clank! Clink-Clank!_

The continuous sound of metal rubbing against metal pierced Jon's ears like the point end of an ice-pick as they made their way across the courtyard in strained silence. _Clink-Clink-Clank!_

Jon hadn't noticed the shackles around Ramsay's wrists until Ser Alliser had pulled him off of his steed, but now that he had, he could not help but wonder what had been the reasoning behind Lord Bolton's decision to take such drastic measures against his own blood as to chain him up like a rabid dog, then send him off to the Wall guarded by no less than six armed soldiers.

Was Ramsay dangerous or perhaps a man burdened by insanity? Obviously, he had not come to Castle Black by his own free will, that much was certain, but what sort of harsh crime had the son of Roose Bolton committed to deserve such a humiliating treatment by the hands of his father?

Halfway through his stream of thought, he stopped. Did it even matter what the bastard son of Roose Bolton had done? Who was Jon to judge him? Didn't this new brother deserve a fresh start just like everybody else at the Wall got? True, Ramsay had not left him with the best impression; ignoring his welcoming hand and sending him demeaning stares, (which Jon had felt glide over his form several times already during the few moments it had been since the Bolton delegation's arrival) but Jon also had to remind himself that all this was new and strange to Ramsay; from the very ground beneath his feet, the many faces surrounding him, and his freshly adopted role as a man of the Night's watch (which was probably as different from his previous life at the Dreadfort as night was to day.)

Jon remembered his first day at Castle Black; how his brain had been almost dazed by the overwhelming flood of new impressions, how insecure and secretly scared he had felt and how ashamed he had been of those very same feelings. Luckily for him he had not been alone at his time of need, so Jon had never been burdened by complete solitude. Grenn, Pyp, and Sam had faced the same struggles as himself, and it hadn't taken the four men long to forge friendships and find allies in one another. Perhaps Ramsay just needed some time to come to terms with his new station and find his feet in the world of the crows before he was able to lay down his guard and become approachable to Jon and the others.

 _But will he be able to stand his ground against Ser Alliser?_ Jon wondered and turned his head slightly to glance at Ramsay, who seemed not to notice his companion staring at him. Ser Alliser despised bastards; he hated Sam Tarley also, but it seemed to be a different kind of hatred than the resentment he harboured towards Jon – and now clearly towards Ramsay as well. _At least there is two of us… Perhaps he will be easier on him than he was with me._ One could always hope, even if it was for something as highly unlikely as Ser Alliser showing leniency towards his subordinates.

The smell of burning coal and the sound of metal singing filled the air as they stepped into the smithy; a large, open room with a dozen forge fires located around its sides. Embers danced through the air and around the sooty blacksmiths, busy forging swords and arrowheads for the endless reserves the Night's Watch needed in their preparations against a Wildling attack.

Jon eyed an unmanned anvil in the corner and motioned for Ramsay to follow him down the row of working men. On his way he grabbed a hammer and chisel, then turned to face Ramsay. Detecting a slight glimpse of unease in the other man's eyes, Jon smiled reassuringly "Do not worry, Ramsay. I have a steady hand" He pointed towards the anvil. "shall we begin?"

The walk from the courtyard to the smithy was a short jaunt, but Ramsay hardly noticed lost to the revelations of what it was having been deposited in the middle of nowhere so far from his home. Home... that was a fallacy that spurred all new resentment to course through him knowing that such a term was now loosely based to a region rather than a hearth that would welcome him. Not that he ever had a familial sentiment with Roose to begin with, but to have been wholly cast out after years of working to impress his worth upon his father left Ramsay feeling carved out and hallowed. The knot that seemed ever-present in his gut twisted further; he should have known better.

Realizing Jon was speaking to him, Ramsay brought his attention to focus on the task at hand lowering himself cautiously to one knee and placing his manacled wrists on top of the anvil. Ramsay grimaced up at Jon searching for any hidden malice in the other man's composure. Ramsay was almost certain that Jon would do him no harm, but his eyes traversed over the other man's movements warily just the same. Jon was waiting for his affirmation to start, so Ramsay nodded curtly, "Go on then; get it over with."

Jon positioned the chisel on top of the padlock as far from Ramsay's wrists as he possibly could. Then, he swung the hammer once, striking the chisel perfectly and driving it into the metal with such force, a piece of the shackle came off. Jon looked at Ramsay. There was no sign of objection towards his technique in the other man's face, so he drove the hammer down once more removing yet another piece of the shackle. After six more strikes, the padlock on Ramsay's right wrist came off with a _clank!_

As the second padlock, which took a mere three strikes to remove, fell to the ground, the sound of the dinner bell rung through the air, "Time for dinner," Jon stated placing the hammer and chisel back on the anvil. "Follow me. I'll take you to the mess-hall."

The hammer's swing had resonated the strength Jon possessed with a vibrating force that ricocheted through Ramsay's arm. It pinched at the small delicate bones of his wrists, but Ramsay only stiffened slightly at the application knowing there was nothing to do for it other than be patient while the other man worked to free him. It was an instant relief to see the metal bend and break, and once his wrists were free, Ramsay's hands took turns rubbing at the soreness long weeks locked within the manacles had caused.

The rigidness in Ramsay's posture finally relaxed slightly for the first time since he'd entered Castle Black. He felt gratitude to Jon but didn't have time to voice it directly before his attention was turned to the resonating chime meant to call the men to sup. Ramsay rose to his feet dusting himself off and gave Jon a nod of approval as Jon turned away to briskly stride through and out of the smithy with Ramsay now close at his heels.

Traversing through the slush of the courtyard to the mess hall, Ramsay's eyes shifted up and down the length of his companion. Several bastards were sent to the Wall every year to join the ranks of the Night's Watch, and Ramsay had found it an amusing bit of knowledge to keep up with (at least prior to his own send off to the Wall.) The old crow had referred to this man as a 'Snow' meaning that they shared something of interest to Ramsay, and as this recollection came to mind, Ramsay lifted his chin squaring Jon with an intense stare as his curiosity overrode his bad mood, "The buzzard called you Snow, a bastard of the North, but I see no vestige of your house upon you. Who is your father?"

The seemingly innocent inquiry evoked in Jon an overwhelming sense of sorrow, and he went still for a moment trying to keep his emotions in check. When he finally spoke, his voice was empty and controlled. "My father was Eddard Stark of Winterfell" he turned his head and met Ramsay's grey gaze "I wear no mark of my father's house because I am not a Stark, nor will I ever be. The second I took the black I lay all that behind me"

Ramsay took in Jon's shifting countenance with a spreading smile, "Eddard Stark you say? I heard what happened to him," there was a hint of amusement that played through Ramsay's eyes as he paused to let his statement sink in before continuing almost nonchalantly, "I suppose you're not a Stark are you? Such a shame about your family, but at least you've still got your head attached to your shoulders."

As though Ramsay's words had struck him a physical blow, Jon stopped dead in his tracks. In a swift move his hand shot out and grabbed Ramsay by the collar of his doublet, dragging him forward a step. With dark eyes shooting fire he stared into Ramsay's, full of that unbearable smugness, masquerading as sympathy. "I may not bear their mark or their name, but the Starks are my kin still. _Never_ speak of them like that to me again!"

Ramsay's eyes widened in surprise at the ferocity that Jon yanked him forward; the man was stronger than he looked. Losing the grin he wore, Ramsay took in Jon's visage carefully gauging how upset he'd truly made the man. Deciding that Jon's open-ended threat was as far as this was going to go, Ramsay regained his composure quickly holding up his hands in supplication before stating in a placating tone, "Of course not. Forgive my ill manners. I never meant any harm by my words." His statement was meant to be mollifying, but the way in which it was conveyed was hardly sincere and in fact tinged with a mocking bravado. Ramsay didn't really care how Jon took his comment knowing from Ser Alliser's earlier warning that Jon was just as likely to earn himself a knock around the ears as he was, and misery always did love company.

The door to the mess hall opened, and Sam Tarley glanced about nervously eyeing Jon and Ramsay. Seemingly unsure if he should intercede in their conversation noting that it had become physical, Sam paused before finally deciding to continue addressing Jon timidly, "I uh... I was about to come fetch you. The slop is running low, and you know once it's gone..." Sam trailed off leaving the consequence unsaid but well known for the recruits that had spent any time at the Wall.

Jon's eyes flickered, and he looked away releasing his hold on Ramsay's collar, "Let's just eat," he said flatly gesturing for Ramsay to follow after Sam and him into the mess hall. _Was I too harsh on him?_ , Jon thought as he pushed open the door. His gut feeling told him he wasn't; Ramsay had provoked him on purpose he was sure of it, yet something inside him also objected to his initial judgement of the man arguing that the reason behind the outrageous comment about his father's brutal fate stemmed from ignorance of what was deemed appropriate and not from the bottom of a soul rotten to the core. Perhaps Ramsay was just acting offensive due to the humiliation he had suffered when Ser Alliser had pulled him off his steed? Either way, Jon would have to correct Ramsay if he acted that way again; it was after all his job to do so now.

Inside the hall, the loud din of hundreds of men's voices were overwhelming. Jon led Ramsay down along the long row of tables coming to a halt at the first with free seats. As the three men sat down, Jon suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to introduce his two companions to each other, "Sam, meet Ramsay Snow, son of Roose Bolton."

Hateful eyes glared daggers at Sam through narrowed slits as Ramsay visibly tightened at the introduction adjusting himself in his seat as his fists audibly tightened in the worn leather gloves he wore. It was not just from the indication of his impure lineage as a snow that had upset Ramsay but the mention of his traitorous father and the immediate sentiments that roused internally that caused this level of surliness in the small man. Either way, the display was enough to stun Sam into inaction as he calculated how best to respond to Ramsay's powerfully negative aura. Smiling nervously, Sam shifted uncomfortably away as far as he could with having been seated next to Bolton's bastard.

This response was enough to elicit a cruel grin from Ramsay enjoying the other man's distress, "A pleasure to meet you," garnering a worried glance from Sam, Ramsay's smile widened as he stated the man's name like a honeyed word from a lover, "Sam."

Clearing his throat, Sam nodded, "Likewise, Ramsay," he mumbled, but his gaze averted to Jon with raised brows signifying that he wasn't very enthused to meet his new friend.

Jon gave Sam a look of compassion. Ramsay's ill manner was hard to handle even to himself; how would a gentle soul like Sam take to the continuous hostility of the new arrival? The man was like an angry porcupine, balled up and ready to shoot its quills at whoever dared approach him. "Sam here is a steward in the service of our Maester, Maester Aemon," he said trying his best to break the ice. "If you have any questions about…well, anything really: he's the man to go to. A lot of knowledge is…"

A plate hit the table in front of him with a dull thud, making some of its contents spill off the edges, "Today's grub is deer's stew!" Grenn's deep voice behind him grunted, "Or at least I think it is… You know what? Just close your eyes and pretend it is." With skilled hand, he quickly sent plates across the table to both Ramsay and Sam. "Enjoy!" he stated flatly not sounding fully convinced but continuing to roll the food-cart further down the row of starving men.

Having been a ready distraction to disengage conversation with Ramsay, Sam took up his flatware and awkwardly afforded both Jon and Ramsay a nod of acknowledgement to remain cordial before turning his attention to the steaming slop placed in front of him.

Ramsay's lip curled disdainfully as his own eyes drifted to the lumpy drab dish that looked as if it were more water than food, "How is one fit to survive off of accommodations like this?" Ramsay growled mostly to himself than his companions, but he'd been manacled for the better half of a month, and truth be told what he'd eaten on the journey up had been even less obliging for survival or flavor. Begrudgingly, Ramsay scooped up his spoon and shoveled a bite down before scowling in disgust, "This tastes like shit."

"Aye, but you'll get used to it – trust me" Jon said in a rough, but not unfriendly voice and tried his best to suppress a grimace as the jelly-like chunk of undefined meat slid down his throat. "Like Grenn said: Just close your eyes and pretend it's something else."

The next few minutes passed quietly as they consumed the meal, the silence broken only by the occasional cough or comment about the food. When they'd finished, Jon collected the plates and placed them at the end of the table in a stack. "Ramsay, it is getting late. Let me show you to your quarters."

The rest of the meal, Ramsay had said nothing as his eyes traversed about the room taking in his surroundings and the faces that populated the room. There were no friends here, and the ramifications of this epiphany had begun to sink in as Ramsay downed the disgusting gruel that would become his daily fare.

Ramsay decided rather swiftly that he wasn't fit for this kind of life. Taking the oath to swear to a life of abstinence and service under the black was not at all what Ramsay intended to be his destiny. It wasn't that he couldn't survive the Watch, he just in no way wished to. He considered sneaking out of the camp in the dead of night to strike out on his own, Ramsay was a seasoned hunter, but there wasn't much in the way of game in these parts due to the harshness of the landscape. Regrettably, it wasn't conducive for a lone hunter to make it long on their own, so if he wanted to escape this particular fate, Ramsay would need allies. He was going to need to find some kind of common ground with others here that also weren't interested in this sort of end.

Jon's voice broke through Ramsay's ruminations, and he blinked dully registering the statement as Jon swept his empty plate from in front of him and Sam. The rotund man also stood when Jon had risen shifting nervously as he stuttered, "I'm... I'm going to get some reading in by the fire before lights out." Sam's eyes cut to Ramsay when the dark tousled head shifted to look at Jon giving the back of his head a disapproving frown before his sights moved up to Jon with a note of sympathy as if to apologize for abandoning him. With a regretful nod, Sam turned and vacated the party leaving Jon once more alone with Ramsay.

Tilting his head with a sly smirk, Ramsay rose replying smugly, "Yes, do take me to my quarters. I'm sure it will be just as lovely as the food."


	3. Lights Out

Chapter Three

Lights Out

They stepped out into the open air; the cold nipping at their faces and turning their breaths into frosty puffs. Jon lifted his eyes heavenward as the night sky, thickening with clouds, blotted out the moon and stars. His eyes cut to Ramsay who stood by his side awaiting his instructions with a look on his face that emitted nothing but arrogant indifference to his surroundings. _This is going to take some effort_ , Jon thought and sighed inwardly before he began walking towards the stairs leading up to his domicile with Ramsay by his side.

The reason for the man’s hostility, Jon could only guess. Perhaps Ramsay originated from a household where disrespectful behaviour like that was the only known type of conduct? House Bolton was a family notoriously known in the North for their brutality after all; their practice of flaying their enemies alive supposedly a thing of the past, yet the rumours Jon had heard from local peasants visiting Winterfell looking for trade suggested otherwise. According to those traders, Roose Bolton, despite its illegality and Ned Stark’s disapproval, was still practicing flaying as punishment on those who crossed him whether it be his enemies or subordinates.

 True, rumours often contained more falsehood than facts, and Jon was usually not one for castle gossip, but he remembered very well the bone-shaking chill that had run down his spine when he first heard the tales of the Dreadfort’s halls decorated with human skins as a boy. If those stories spoke even an ounce of truth, Jon pitied Ramsay for having been raised amongst such brutal people, and thought it no wonder he had such difficulty adjusting to his new environment.

“We’ll have to share quarters; at least for a little while until Ser Alliser will assign you your own,” Jon stated as they made their way across the courtyard and up the stairs in a fast tempo, “I know it is not an optimal arrangement, but I promise you that I will do my best to afford you what privacy I can.” He surveyed Ramsay’s face, awaiting his reaction but none came. The man seemed to be listening to his words intently, and if he objected to the arrangement, he made no indication.

 As they neared the door to Jon’s quarters a light scraping sound could be heard at the other side of it. Ghost! The thought of the direwolf suddenly sprung to mind, making Jon slightly angry with himself. During all the commotion that had followed the new arrival he had completely forgotten about the two-hundred-pound beast awaiting them in the room. Stopping dead in his tracks, Jon turned to Ramsay. “Forgive me. I’ve failed to mention that I have a wolf…um, I mean a direwolf,” he corrected himself, “His name is Ghost. Please do not be frightened.”

Jon's words that they would be sharing a living space was definitely not ideal. Ramsay's mind ticked away at the implications this may cause should Jon get in his way when it came time to vacate Castle Black. He doubted the Stark bastard would be willing to aide him in any such attempt to desert the Night's Watch by how highly he regarded the role even though he was obviously given no title or respect from the Watch's top tier. Either way, it was a worry for another day when there was time to get his bearings and assess his situation better.

Ramsay noted the clawed paw scratching at the door recognizing a canine presence from the many hounds he'd trained before Jon had announced Ghost. A direwolf! Ramsay had heard tale of the larger than life wolves from stories, but to now have the opportunity to see one up close sent a trill of excitement and heightened alertness to shock up his spine. He was a man who knew the viciousness a normal dog could display, so he was no fool to assume the animal might not take to him kindly. He was good with dogs though; Ramsay liked them far better than people, "I'm not frightened. I've always wanted to see such a beast. Please do bring it forth, so that I may have a look see."

Hesitant, as if he was unsure whether it was the right thing to do or not, Jon grabbed the latch and yanked it upwards. With a loud groan the heavy oaken door swung open. Ghost, the great white direwolf Jon had kept as a pet since he was barely more than a pup himself, appeared in the doorway, fierce and shaggy-looking. The wolf stood still for a moment, eyeing them both before a deep savage growl filled the air.

 Ghost’s ears pinned back, and his lips twisted into a snarl as a low rumble vibrated from his throat. His eyes glared a predatory stare at Ramsay warning the man not to come any closer. “Ghost!” Jon exclaimed sternly, the tone of his voice revealing his surprise of the animal’s behaviour. “Don’t!”

Ramsay’s eyes widened as the canine’s mass came into sight. He didn’t take offense that the wolf growled at him and to the contrary let go an amused chuckle exclaiming with very real excitement, “Impressive!” Not wishing to provoke the animal, Ramsay lowered himself down to one knee as his eyes fixed with Ghost’s. His voice took on a gentle timber as he cautiously extended his hand for the animal to smell, “Easy boy; you can do me a far bit more damage at this vantage than I can you. Let’s say we instead make friends.”

The direwolf regarded Ramsay warily looking up to Jon to validate his concerns unsure what to make of his new companion.

“Quiet Ghost,” The calm authority of Jon’s voice made the wolf fall completely silent. For a second it stood staring at Ramsay and his outstretched hand; red eyes locking on his form like it was ready to rip his throat out should he make even the slightest wrong move, before turning around with one last warning growl and walking away. Upon reaching the corner near Jon’s bed, Ghost collapsed on the floor with a dull thud. With eyes transfixed on the new arrival, the wolf yawned and put his shaggy head on his paws.

 “My apologies…I guess he is just not used to sharing his space with strangers,” Jon shook his head, looking a little embarrassed, “Should you have any objections to his presence here, I understand, and I will make different arrangements for him.”

Rising from his knee, Ramsay shrugged noncommittedly at the animal’s behaviour, “As long as he can refrain from ripping me to pieces, I think we will both grow used to each other. I’m rather fond of dogs actually. Before I came to be here, I had several well trained to hunt with me. They are loyal beasts,” Ramsay’s speech came to a halt mentally ticking away at his own statement and the irony it made him feel. His dogs were the only living creatures he had ever trusted not to betray him, and the reminder of this made a wash of bitterness crash through him.

Ramsay’s sights shifted to take in the small room wishing to move his thoughts from the negativity that rose bile into his throat. Jon’s quarters were simple but not the worst accommodations one could be given, and apparently also being fitted with another bed meant it was to be a shared occupancy. Edging past Jon, Ramsay made his way over to the cot Ghost was not curled next to and slumped down heavily upon it with an exasperated sigh. Ramsay’s eyes cut to Jon as he let the momentum of his fall lay his body prone upon the mattress, “So then, this is it? The glorious service of the Black. What do you do here anyway? The way you’re dressed, you don’t look much like a fighter.”

“Amongst us, rangers do the fighting - and I am not a ranger,” Jon said noticing that a rare shade of annoyance had crept into his voice. He looked at Ramsay’s form splayed out on the cot for a second before he turned his gaze to the floor, “I tend to the Lord Commander’s needs as a steward--”

 A flash of Ser Alliser’s smirking face appeared before his eyes then, making him subconsciously clench his fists, and he paused for a second to collect his thoughts. Like his uncle, Benjen Stark, all Jon ever wanted to be was a ranger. It was his true calling he knew, but Ser Alliser had taken it away from him with nothing but a whisper in Lord Mormont’s ear. _Jon Snow to the stewards._

The words spoken that cold morning, words that sealed his fate and bound him to a life of servitude within an order he did not belong to, stung his pride still. Though the passage of time had removed some of the bitterness, Jon couldn’t help but feel robbed of an opportunity to show the world that he was good at something, that the many years practicing swordplay with Ser Rodrick and Robb had not been for nought. To show them all that even Lord Stark’s bastard could fend for himself.

 Jon let his fingers caress the direwolf pommel on Longclaw before unbuckling his sword belt and placing it on a chair next to his cot. “I did not choose my current station, but I’ve learned to make my peace with it. It is not as heroic as being a fighter I know, but it fills the belly thrice a day and keeps you warm most of the time,” Jon paused a moment to reflect on his own words before sitting down on the cot, “Can _you_ fight, Ramsay?” He asked, kicking off his boots.

Throughout Jon’s shifting change in disposition, Ramsay’s interest had perked, and a cocky grin manifested the moment Jon had mentioned his lot in life. A steward, so Jon was nothing more than a glorified maid for the watch. How fitting, the man struck him as a dutiful servant. Ramsay thought to cheekily ask whether Jon had to empty the grand master’s chamber pot, but as the conversation continued and Jon then asked him of his battle prowess, Ramsay became far more interested in bragging. He scoffed, “Likely better than you,” Ramsay fixed Jon with a sly smirk adding the title disdainfully, “Steward.” The insult was left to hang in the air with a minor pause before Ramsay continued not meaning to give Jon the ability to comment on the intended slight, “I can use a sword well enough, but my gift lies in archery. I’ve spent much of my youth tracking prey, and I’ve become quite a capable hunter.”

His chest puffed quipping smugly, “Unlike you, I’ll be a sure fit for a ranger once my competence with a bow is known.” He had to make Ranger, Ramsay decided then; if he was stationed to serve at Castle Black as Jon was, getting away from the keep was going to be a far harder task to manoeuvre. Besides, he was no common servant. Even as a bastard, Ramsay couldn’t stomach the thought of such drudgery marking his station.

 _Unlike me?_ Closing his eyes, Jon sat still for a second ruminating over Ramsay’s provocations, before opening them again just in time to catch his smirking gaze those grey eyes of his glinting with amusement. A part of Jon wanted lash out at the man, insult Ramsay the way he had insulted him time over already; but Jon also remembered how he had acted rashly towards the new arrival when he had grabbed a hold of his collar before they went into the dining hall and how he had regretted his actions moments later. Escalating the situation further by offering offense back would probably only give him even more cause to regret, and since this had already been a day filled with enough hostility between the two of them, Jon decided he’d better hold his tongue for the time being and let Ramsay keep whatever victory he thought he just had.

 “If your wish is to become a ranger, I suggest you show Ser Alliser the best of your skills every day until you take the black, starting tomorrow at sword practice. He is the one you need to impress, not I.” Jon leaned backwards and let his head hit the pillow, “Stay on his good side; that’s my advice to you. Maybe then you’ll have a chance, if you are as great a fighter as you say."

Ramsay’s lips pursed taking in Jon’s final words. Did the man doubt his skills? Ramsay wouldn’t admit it aloud, but he wasn’t much of a swordsman and had in fact been compared to a butcher hacking meat by his own father though he was not to blame having been trained by a servant that was never a proper knight.

His lips dipped further into an all-out scowl in remembrance that he would be tested on his noteworthiness concerning such endeavors come the morning, and the one judging him would be the very man that openly disrespected him upon his arrival. It was sobering and left Ramsay to fall silent to inner contemplation. He no longer felt like boasting to Jon knowing he was likely going to be made a fool for it, so instead, Ramsay said nothing in return to Jon’s comment letting it be the last of their conversation. He had bigger things to worry about than proving himself to these imbeciles willing to throw their lives away to savages and make-believe stories of walking dead beyond the wall. If Ramsay hadn’t been exhausted, these ruminations among many aggravations would have plagued him awake into the wee hours of the morning, but it had been a month’s time since he’d laid in a bed, and the rest of him decided that sleep was to be had whether Ramsay was a willing participant or not.


	4. First Impressions

Chapter Four

First Impressions

It was the rooster's crow that woke them.

Shivering in the early morning chill, Jon yawned, then sat up on the cot. From the yard, muffled voices of men going about their daily affairs drifted through the oaken door, and his stomach growled reminding him that food awaited him. He looked to the corner of the room for Ghost only to find that the animal at one point during the night had crept close to him and was now laying directly beneath the cot. He faced Ramsay, starring at his slumbering form still wrapped in a blanket like a caterpillar in a cocoon.

"Ramsay…" Jon started, but received only a muted groan in reply, "Practice starts soon. We can make breakfast, if we hurry."

The sound of Jon's voice trickled into Ramsay's ear in an incoherent garble as he blinked bleary eyes into a state of wakefulness. Rising on his elbow, Ramsay swivelled towards Jon with a startled jolt. The unfamiliar setting temporarily seized Ramsay with alarm, but as his mind settled, Ramsay's body slackened, and a sullen moodiness seeped over him like a darkening cloud.

It was frigid up here, and dawn's breaking light wasn't an encouraging push to want to get out of bed. Ramsay pulled the blankets tighter barking sourly, "You hurry. I'd rather stay here than eat that slop you call food."

"Very well," Deciding not to waste his breath by arguing, Jon rose from the cot in one swift movement. "When the bell chimes, we'll meet in the courtyard. Just don't fall asleep again or you might miss it." He slid into his boots, tied his fur cloak around his shoulders, and stepped up to the door with Ghost following right behind him. "No, boy. You stay here," he ordered and gave the direwolf a gentle push away from the door. Ghost yawned, then gave a low whine nudging against his hand. The animal's affection made Jon smile and run his hand through its soft shaggy fur. "Make sure he gets up," He nodded towards Ramsay's figure beneath the blanket, still curled up in a ball, "Or we'll both be in trouble." Before exiting the room, Jon gave Ramsay one last glance then rushed out the door and down the stairs.

The ground squished beneath his feet as he made his way across the muddy courtyard and into the mess-hall. Inside the dining-area, it was almost empty; most men had already eaten and had begun the day's work. Jon hurried up to one of the large pots that hung over the rock pit in the centre of the room, and scooped himself a portion of leftover stew. Looking across the room, he spotted Sam, sitting by his lonesome at one of the long-tables with his nose buried in a book, "Mornin' Sam," Jon said and took a seat across from his friend.

Lifting his face to the chime of Jon's familiar voice, Sam's face brightened with a smile, "Jon! I was beginning to think you weren't going to make it this morning." Sam's vision peered past Jon noting that the man didn't have his newest charge tagging along beside him, and his form visibly relaxed, "You're alone?"

"Aye" Jon stuck a spoon into the food, pulled out a bite, and shoved it into his mouth. "It seems that Ramsay has taken a dislike to the grub here. He'd rather rest than eat," he stated as he chewed. He flashed Sam a warm smile of his own, "Not that I blame him. This tastes even worse today than it did last night."

Sam's gaze cut to the side in thoughtful contemplation as he gave a small nod of acknowledgement, "It's not the most satisfying when you've had better, but training is hard work, and I can't imagine doing it on an empty stomach." Sam's brow raised curiously as his eyes drew back up to stare at Jon, "No offense, but I'm kind of happy he's not here. He's… he's a bit… volatile, isn't he?"

"That he is," Jon stated thoughtfully and recalled the many insults Ramsay had already spewed at him along with the demeaning look he had given Sam in the dining-hall the night before, "But we ought not judge him so harshly, Sam. Ramsay needs a chance if he's going to survive here. If he does not change his ways - and soon - Ser Alliser is going to eat him alive."  _And me along with him,_ Jon thought,  _If Ramsay missteps_ ,  _Ser Alliser will make sure I'm punished as well._ Not that Ser Alliser frightened Jon; no, the man was but a nuisance but, unfortunately for Jon, a very powerful nuisance who not only hated him passionately but also had the clout to make his life a living hell.

Huge chocolate pupils took in Jon's statement raptly hanging off every word as Sam was prone to pay close attention. Once it was apparent that Jon had finished, Sam offered lightly, "Ser Alliser isn't going to like Ramsay at all… perhaps even more so than the contempt he shows for you. What do you propose to do, Jon?"

"I don't know, Sam," Jon pondered for a moment then added, "I guess all we really can do is try to aide him the best we can -  _if_ he wants our help that is. Ramsay wants to make ranger…perhaps I can train swords with him, make sure he's properly challenged before Ser Alliser makes his picks."

The thought of helping Ramsay brought a grimace to Sam's face. He was already imagining the hurled verbal abuse that such a venture was likely to entail, but he nodded demurely his acceptance of Jon's proposal. Jon had helped him when all Sam had wanted to do was cower on the ground wrapped in a fetal ball. Sam would have grovelled there until Ser Alliser had sent him to the servant's barracks in shamed mockery of his house, but Jon hadn't allowed him to give up.

Sam was not imperceptive to Jon's plight now, and although never once did Jon blame the timid rotund man for his given lot in the Night's Watch as a steward alongside him, inwardly Sam was well aware he had held more than a small part in Ser Alliser's decision to exclude Jon from the ranks of being a ranger. Ser Alliser was a spiteful man, and Jon had paid the price for having the nerve to stand up for him. The fact that Jon was willing to train the Bolton bastard to enhance the chances that he could take the black under the station of a ranger without an ounce of bitterness spoke volumes to the disposition of the man that Sam had grown to fervently respect. If Jon could muster the strength to endure Ramsay, Sam would too.

Before Sam could respond further than his gestured nod, the gong of the outside bell calling the recruits to the courtyard resonated into the hall, and the remaining conscripts that still sat sporadically throughout the room lurched from their seats to hurriedly make their way outside. Sam and Jon rose with the rest and followed them out.

The men were lining up in front of the podium where Ser Alliser stood staring down at them with a glare that was half disinterest and half disgust. Sam swivelled his head spanning the entirety of all those gathered before turning a worried brow to Jon, "Ser Alliser is in attendance, and Ramsay isn't… not showing up for his first lesson isn't going to play in his favour. You're going to have your work cut out for you with that one…"

***…***

The silence that ensued when Jon left the room was only disturbed by the light clicking of long clawed toenails pacing back and forth in front of the cabin's door. Ghost let out a small defeated whine before retreating back to Jon's cot, hopping on top of the now straightened furs, and turning himself in circles to settle with a groan into a deflated heap. His eyes remained ever watchful, but having grown a little more accustomed to Ramsay's presence, Ghost was no longer taut with caution. Instead, his ears stood perked and his brow curious to see what this new element in his domain would do.

Ramsay wasn't really interested in going back to sleep; at this juncture, he wouldn't have been able to if he'd wanted. Still, Ramsay remained unmoving within the weathered linens he was afforded noting the scratchy texture along with the numerous lumps and dips in the mattress. He hadn't really paid it mind the night before because it had been quite some time since he'd been provided the opportunity to lie in a bed, but now, Ramsay's mind festered on his building misfortunes one by one.

Normally Ramsay's outlook was rather optimistic, but given his current circumstances, he wasn't feeling at all himself. There was a sense of spiralling chaos to his life spinning what he'd imagined to be his destiny out of alignment, and this uncertainty left him feeling discombobulated in the worst of ways.

From the day he'd stepped foot on the road headed to the Dreadfort with the knowledge he was Roose Bolton's bastard, Ramsay had known what life he was fated to have. Sure, there had been obstacles to overcome, but he had seen to it that his future was solidified as an heir to the Bolton legacy, or at least he'd assumed as much. That future hadn't been as set in stone as Ramsay had imagined, and now here he lay contemplating this fact alongside what options he had been given.

He supposed it could have been worse; Roose could have seen him hung or flayed for his public scorn, but there had been something in the older Bolton's eyes that suggested that he'd only made such a statement to bolster his political alliances (or so Ramsay presumed since he'd not been made privy of the real reasoning that he'd been sent away.)

Roose had left the maester's tidings that his fat little wife had quickened with child and would produce a true heir by the onset of winter to himself. Ramsay wouldn't have abided a male sibling to live, Roose knew well, and sending Ramsay to the Wall ensured that his bastard would not intercede. If he had a girl, Roose was more than sure that he could send someone to retrieve Ramsay and regain his intend dynasty through his tainted spawn. Perhaps the boy would even learn to be grateful for the amenities being a lord's son afforded him.

These were the true reasons that Ramsay was unaware of, but regardless of Roose's true intent, Ramsay's heart curdled in resentment to know that he'd not only been refused as his son once but now twice. The first had been excusable because he'd never been brought into the fold, but this… Ramsay's chest tightened as the burgeoning emotions of rage and hurt swirled into murderous intent. His father would pay. He would leave this place, and he would find a way to usurp his father if not to rightfully claim his house than to flay away the animosity he felt piece by piece from the man and burn the keep to the ground. If he wasn't to be a part of the Bolton line than he would destroy it.

These ruminations spiderwebbed through a myriad of torturous displays Ramsay envisioned as payment for the slights visited upon him, but as the time ticked away, he was drawn out of his reverie by the very same clang that alerted all within the walls of Castle Black that breakfast had concluded and training was soon to begin. Ramsay's eyes squinted hatefully; they could all go fuck themselves he thought indignantly. He wasn't planning on sticking around here long, so what did he care if he missed the first day's training? They likely wouldn't even note that he was missing.

***…***

"A bunch of little girls! All of you!" Ser Alliser uttered in an aggressive drawl then snorted loudly. "This is a man's job! What in the seven hells am I supposed to do with you lot!? Dress you up pretty and braid your bloody hair?" His gaze wandered over the crowd inspecting the men one by one like he was buying livestock until his glare settled on a short, fresh-faced, recruit standing outermost on the right.

Finding himself under Ser Alliser's scrutinizing stare, the youngster immediately bowed his head and looked away. The sight of the evasive man made the old knight snort derisively once again; his jaw clenched and unclenched furiously while he gnashed his teeth, "Coward," he sneered before raising his voice to address the crowd, "Alright girlies! Put on your gear and find a partner. Show me what you've got!"

Jon and Sam exchanged a look of relief. Apparently, Ser Alliser hadn't noticed Ramsay's absence, which gave Jon a chance to fetch him before training would commence, thereby averting whatever punishment the knight might see fit to award him for his offence. He was just about to turn around and head for his quarters when Ser Alliser's crude voice cut through the crowd making every man in its vicinity, including Jon, freeze momentarily. "Wait!" With his face twisted in a grimace of disbelief and lips moving silently as he counted, the older knight let his eyes slide from one recruit to the next. "What in the bloody hell?!..." he uttered angrily as he finished the count.

Looking up, he met Jon's dark eyes. "Where is the Bolton bastard, Lord Snow? Where is your little  _friend?_ " he asked voice heavy with venom. For a moment there was only silence, then Sam gave a small, nearly inaudible gasp as Jon stepped forward in front of the recruits. Feeling their nervous eyes shifting between Ser Alliser and himself, Jon breathed out heavily, "He's still in our chambers I recon. My apologies, Ser Alliser," Jon stated flatly and began to move towards the stairs leading up to the domiciles on the first floor, "I'll go get him."

Ser Alliser's lips curled in a malignant smile, "The whelp better be dressed and ready to go. I'm going to give you till the count of forty. After that, there'll be hell to pay." For a moment the two men shot daggers at each other before Ser Alliser face twisted back into a smile. " _One…two…_ " he counted and lifting his eyebrows in challenge, " _three…four…_ you better run,  _boy_ …. _five_ …"

Jon rushed towards the stairs in full sprint ascending it by taking eight large leaps. Upon reaching the door to his chambers, he could feel his heart beating against his ribcage like a battering ram. From down below, Ser Alliser's voice rose up " _Ten…eleven…twelve_ …" It seemed as though he had picked up the pace and was counting faster.


	5. Sized Up

Jon grabbed the latch and yanked open the door entering the room to see Ramsay laying on his cot with his legs crossed and arms behind his head. “Did you not hear the bell? You have got to come with me right now! Ser Alliser is waiting for you.” 

Ramsay hadn’t heard the impending count down, and when Jon burst through the door with an urgent move to rush him, his obstinance frenzied within him like an angry swarm of bees, “Did it?” His lip twisted in disdain as he stated with no small amount of animosity, “So what. Let the buzzard wait.” 

“Ramsay…” Jon started, his voice deep and authoritative, his words crisp and impatient, “This is no game. Whatever life you led before, free of consequence is gone.” He stepped up close to the bed so that he was towering over Ramsay’s form. “You are a recruit and need to follow orders whether it is to your liking or not!” 

 _Free of consequence…_ the implication for Jon to say those words to him caused Ramsay’s eyes to narrow and his lips to purse angrily. The audacity of the man to assume he had not known hardship was ludicrous! Ramsay had heard of Ned Stark’s bastard and known he’d been taken in as a babe to live not far from that of a noble from birth where Ramsay had been born to a peasant in a shoddy rundown mill. For Jon to judge him as having lived a carefree life only served to further Ramsay’s stubbornness as he reactively folded his arms belligerently across his chest turning his narrowed slits up to glare daggers at Jon, “I know what I am! It’s you that does not! It can’t be so pressing that I arrive with bells and whistles mere hours after I’ve come to be in this shithole.” 

A flash of anger blazed in Jon’s gut. With difficulty he supressed an instant outburst, aware the sudden flare of ire was as much directed inward as it was at the other man. He should have warned Ramsay in advance, he recognized; told him what repercussions crossing Ser Alliser could bring, but he hadn’t and now they were both about to suffer the knight’s fury because of his neglect. Jon took a deep breath to calm himself before he spoke again. “I may have chosen my words unwisely and for that I apologize, but there is no time to argue further. It _is_ a pressing matter. Come with me or we’ll both face punishment for our absence.”  

Ramsay’s eyes measured the other man with a deep scrutiny noting the tenseness exuding from Jon’s form. Seeing him visibly squirm was its own joy and brought a smirk to play across Ramsay’s face. The note of being disciplined for tardiness though was enough to rouse Ramsay to his feet with a detached sigh, “Fine, fine. If we must make our presence known…” he snorted his annoyance swivelling up to lean over and leisurely grab his boots that he’d kicked off prior to settling into bed. Ramsay was still dressed, so there wasn’t much to put on other than his cloak, so he was in no hurry despite Jon’s warnings. The fact he was moving at all to Jon’s request Ramsay saw to be enough. It was a subtle defiance where he was still doing what was requested of him but letting Jon know he wasn’t going to be rushed for his sake. 

 _We’re not going to make it in time_. Jon turned his thoughts to Ser Alliser in front of all the new recruits counting downwards towards their unknown, inevitable fate. He couldn’t hear any voices rising from the courtyard despite the door to the outside being open, but he had a gut feeling that the time promised either was up already or was just about to be. Jon looked at Ramsay, dragging on his boots in a lazy tempo. Other than grabbing the man’s cloak and handing it to him there was really little Jon could do to speed up the process - rushing Ramsay would be like rushing a stubborn ass, he knew, so there was really no point in trying to do so. Instead Jon stepped up to the door and listened intently. Nothing. The courtyard had gone quiet. He looked back just in time to see Ramsay had finished tying the cloak around his shoulders. “Let’s go,” he said in a flat voice and proceeded to walk out the door. 

Amusement still lay plainly decorating his face as Ramsay sauntered casually to  step  outside behind Jon. With  a  painful echo, the silence in the  courtyard was broken  as the heavy oaken door was snagged shut behind himself. Ramsay  suddenly became very aware that every man's eye in the area was trained solely on the two of them, and it  made the smaller man's gait stutter stop a moment to take in the gravity of the situation. 

  Recovering quickly, Ramsay stiffened pressed to present himself  standing tall as he squared his shoulders and looked out over the balcony. His eyes met the piercing glare of Ser  Alliser; the old knight wasn't frowning as Ramsay would have expected. No, Ser Alliser's eyes were fiercely trained on him like that of a hawk, but his face wore a tight-lipped  grin. It wasn't a, _'I'm glad to see  you,'_ sort of  expression rather than the look of a predator laying eyes on its next meal. Feeling a sense of urgency now, Ramsay picked up his stride to catch up to Jon who was swiftly bounding down the stairs away from him to re-join the rest of the crows. 

An eerie silence surrounded Jon and Ramsay as they made their way through the crowd and towards the podium where Ser Alliser was waiting on them. “Look boys! Look who has decided to grace us with their presence! It’s the Lords Snow!” he mocked when they came to a halt in front of the podium. A few members of the crowd started laughing and the knight’s smile grew wider for a moment before it slowly morphed into a sneer instead, “You do realize you’re late,” he said gnashing his teeth together like an enraged animal.  

Knowing that Ser Alliser had already made up his mind about the pending punishment, that he and Ramsay’s fate was already sealed, Jon decided he wasn’t about to give the man the satisfaction of seeing him apologizing for what was considered nothing but a misdemeanour offense. Being late for practice was not an uncommon phenomenon amongst the new recruits, and usually Ser Alliser would simply penalize the wrongdoer an additional hour or so of hard work (of course if the recruit kept on being late for his duties or fell asleep on his watch, the punishment would be correspondingly harsher, but such penalties were rarely given out by anyone except the Lord Commander himself.)  

Although it was clear that Ser Alliser wasn’t about to let them off with just an hour of work, Jon had already made up his mind to face the consequences for his actions like a man, no matter what the punishment might be, “I do,” he returned the knight’s stare with an equally cold one straightening his back and puffing out his chest, “But we’re here now and ready to begin the day’s training.”  

“Are you now?” Ser Alliser scoffed. For a moment he stayed silent, chewing on his lower lip, before his sneer turned back into a dark smile and a chuckle filled the air, “Well …let’s all get to it then! Lord Snow is ready to begin! Start wielding those swords, boys!” The men had started pairing up when Ser Alliser’s voice rung out once again. “Just one more thing,” everyone stopped dead in their tracks and turned their attention back to the knight, “All of you will skip your midday meal today.” He raised one gloved hand and pointed a finger in Jon and Ramsay’s direction, “And you can thank those two bastards for that. When your bellies start to growl…remember who is at fault.” 

Ramsay had remained silent just observing Jon and Ser Alliser interact. His lip curled in disdain to the given sentence, and he let out an involuntary scoff of annoyance but otherwise kept his depreciating mood to himself. Ramsay’s wary eyes then scanned the heavy glares that alienated he and Jon, and he realized quickly that this decrepit badger was going to be a very real problem for him.  

Stiffening, Ramsay clenched his fists tightly and scowled in a show of what he hoped was perceived as strength and indifference. Inwardly though, Ramsay knew what kind of men were sent to the wall, men that were capricious and ruthless, men like him. He swallowed back his nervousness turning to Jon as an immediate diversion to the wall of onlookers as he growled mostly to himself and Jon, “To be told to skip a portion of that swill is more of a service than a punishment.” 

Knowing full well that Ramsay would regret his statement come midday at the latest, Jon offered no reply. Instead, he shook his head and pointed to the large pile of shields, training swords and armour that had been laid out near the podium. “Let’s get dressed, and get going,” he said trying to make his voice as flat as possible so as not to betray his irritation, “You’re partnering up with me for now.” Grabbing a poorly made boiled leather jerkin from the pile, he once again looked to the podium where Ser Alliser stood, sneering down at them. Jon held his steady unwavering gaze for a moment before breaking off and returning his attention to pulling the jerkin around his chest. 

The sourness felt by the exchange left a standing grimace to grace Ramsay’s face as he wordlessly sifted through the well-worn armaments to find suitable wears that would fit him well enough. All of it was trash as far as Ramsay was concerned having to pick through the dregs of what all the other recruits had forgone, but after several long minutes, he found something within the mound suitable enough.  

There weren’t any bows, and Ramsay’s piercing glare moved up to Jon wondering if the man had purposefully avoided the weapon of his choice in an effort to make him look bad. His frown deepened as Ramsay snatched up a shield and began hefting one of the short swords grousing his stirring testiness, “The balance is off, and the grip is warped. This isn’t the sort of arms one can expect outside of training; is it?” It was more of a complaint than a question Ramsay expected an answer too. 

“We have finer weaponry for purposes other than training,” Jon said picking up a random sword from the heap swinging it in front of himself once and generating a _swooshing_ sound. “They might not be forged by the hands of a castle blacksmith, but they are light and easily brandished. Still, if none of the swords are to your liking, the smithy is at your disposal should you wish to forge a blade of your own.” 

Ramsay’s eyes narrowed his jaw working in agitation as Jon spoke, and when he’d finished, Ramsay sneered his disdain, “Do I look like a fucking blacksmith to you? How good are you at forging swords? I can bet you didn’t forge that sword with the wolf’s head you left next to your cot; did you?” 

As Jon opened his mouth to speak, a crease of anger flashed across his brow, “You speak as though I am your enemy. I am not! I wished simply to…” he started but was interrupted by the sound of Ser Alliser’s hate-ridden voice right behind him. Apparently, he had slipped up on them while they had been arguing, “What are you two bastards quibbling about?!” Jon could sense the man’s cold stare burning holes in the back of his head, “Perhaps you think you can nag the wildlings to death, is that it eh? You better get on with it, or I’ll rob every man here of supper as well!” Ser Alliser stepped up next to Jon and pointed his finger in Ramsay’s direction, “You, _boy_! Attack him!” 

 _Attack_ was a command that Ramsay only needed to hear once, much like the hounds he had trained, he was eager and ready to lunge out and strike. He’d seen sword’s play enough to have the basic gist of how to go about it, but his arch was too high and untrained. Still, Ramsay savagely swung into Jon with all his might. 

For a split second, Jon stood completely still just watching as Ramsay charged at him. Then, with the speed and agility worthy of a hare evading a wolf’s bone-crunching jaws, he took a step to the side, leaving Ramsay stumbling forward; his blade missed Jon’s head by several inches hitting nothing but empty air. Just in time to hear the furious venom that spilled from his adversary’s lips as he realized his mistake, Jon swung his blade horizontally into Ramsay’s leather-clad back instead. 

Staggering haphazardly, Ramsay almost careened into Ser Alliser, but the old knight stepped to the side nonchalantly and easily avoided the collision. Ramsay’s back snapped up like the crack of a whip to the stinging feel of Jon’s steal smacking into the small of his back. The pain sparked a growl of annoyance to surge through him as Ramsay whipped back around to bare gritted teeth seething with annoyance and embarrassment. It was bad enough that Jon was besting him, but to be doing so in front of the shriveled cunt, Ser Alliser made the slight far worse to endure. 

Ramsay let loose a cry of rage rushing forward to hack at Jon in a flurry of slashes that Jon effortlessly blocked with his shield. The smaller man wasn’t going for precision over viciously hammering away chaotically in an effort to connect a blow by the sheer velocity of hits he was delivering. 

 _Thunk_ _!_ _Thunk_ _!_ _Thunk_ _!_ The brutal thrusts with which Ramsay was wielding his sword at him sent violent shakes through Jon’s body. Although his trained eye remained focused, seeking out undefended flesh, the moment of imbalance (of which there were many), Jon did not retaliate once; he did not wish to embarrass Ramsay further than he had already been, least of all in front of Ser Alliser who was watching them now with an utter look of disgust on his face. Instead he crouched as low as he could trying to make himself as small a target as possible and met each of Ramsay’s strikes with his raised shield.  

“You fight like a rabid dog,” Ser Alliser exclaimed sourly as Ramsay’s blade hacked into Jon’s shield for the dozinth or so time. “A rabid dog with piss poor eyesight! And you’re certainly no match for him,” Pursing his lips together he produced a shrill whistle loud enough to make not only Ramsay and Jon, but every man in the courtyard come to a halt. “RASS TOYNE!” he boomed at the top of his lungs “GET OVER HERE!!!” 

Ser Alliser’s comment sent an instant jolt of indignation through Ramsay, and if he were in any other circumstance, the dull blade he held would have found its way to bludgeon the geezer for making such a poor assumption of his skills. Ramsay bristled digesting the words, ‘No match for him.’ Just who the hell did this old fuck think he was to presume he knew his aptitudes? 

Blazing inwardly, Ramsay stood stiffly watching the crowd expectantly in an attempt to observe this Rass Toyne being summoned to take Jon’s stead. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t going to best him, Ramsay assured himself, although part of him worried as an understanding of the sort of man Ser Alliser was made him question just how far the man would go to make a fool of him in this moment. 

One could almost hear a pin drop in the silence that followed Ser Alliser’s order. Then, like waves in front of a ship’s bow, the crowd divided and a tall wide-shouldered man, with a mane of yellow hair slicked back from his forehead, appeared. Jon watched as Rass Toyne came trudging towards them slowly and with a confidence seldom seen in a recruit let alone a new arrival. He was older than both he and Ramsay Jon could tell but by how much was hard to assess.  

As he came to a halt a few feet away from Ramsay, the morning sun fell full on his pointy fox-like face revealing a pair of dark brown eyes that swiftly looked his opponent over from head to toe taking measure of him. His lips curled into a sneer, “Bolton,” was all he said before swinging his sword in a loop once and hawking up a glop of phlegm which he then spat on the ground between them.  

Ramsay stood his ground as Rass strode through the other new recruits that had all but halted their own practices to heed the bark of Ser Alliser’s command. It wasn’t said, but it also wasn’t missed that whatever was happening here held some sort of weight, a lesson waiting to be revealed. The man was stout and intimidating, but Ramsay wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of portraying any hint of the nervousness he felt. Instead, he let the man’s obvious insult boost a quip to loosen itself from his own lips, “You’ve heard of my family name then? Good. Sorry to say that yours doesn’t ring a bell as belonging to any noble’s house that I’m familiar with.” 

“I ain’t of no bloody noble stock, but at least I ain’t no whore’s spawn like you…” Rass' sneer had grown into a full-fledged snarl, full of hate and loathing. He raised his sword and pointed it directly at Ramsay “…bastard.”  

The instant Rass referred to his own linage in a derogatory fashion, Ramsay bristled, face going slack, and eyes piercing a deadly glare at his new adversary. His grip tightened on his sword’s handle, and when the word ‘bastard’ tumbled forth, Ramsay’s temper reached a boiling point. Using the fact the man was pointing his sword at him made it easy for Ramsay to slam his own weapon into it to knock the implement to the side and give himself an opening to bash the man in the chest with his shield. 

“Don’t you call me that!” Ramsay shouted his rage as he crashed into the man with all his might wholly intending to see the man topple to the ground, but even putting his full strength into his bull rush failed to push the man back one iota. Ramsay simply bounced backwards from his effort as the only force between them that would give. He retreated a few steps as surprise registered clearly on his face with a slackening jaw and wide blue eyes climbing up to stare at Rass in disbelief. 

“Don’t call me that,” Ser Alliser mimicked scornfully with a snorted laugh. Without taking his eyes off Ramsay, he walked up behind the blonde man and put his hand on his shoulder tapping it once like one would an old friend, “Rass here is from Barrowton – born and breed. He grew up in a stinkin’ gutter overrun with thieves and whores, not some warm comfortable castle with fine steel and knights to teach him how to wield it. He didn’t have it easy like you lot, yet he knows his way with the sword better than most bastards that have come crawling through our gates.” His gaze wandered to Jon for a moment before returning to Ramsay who stood looking rather dumbfounded still, “Let us see if you can at least best a man with no proper training,” He took two steps backwards and raised his hand in the air, “Begin!” 

The poor impersonation of his comment had Ramsay’s eyes narrowing hatefully at their senior in command. As the man continued to lump insulting assumption one after another about Ramsay’s supposed past, his jaw worked irritably, lips splitting to showcase his growing annoyance through gritted teeth. He hadn’t had it easy like Ser Alliser presumed, and much like the peasant that stood so emboldened before him, he’d not had any formal training as a youth. 

Ramsay wasn’t about to volunteer the fact that he’d been haphazardly trained by a shunned servant sent to his mother’s mill as a buyoff to keep the woman from imparting the truth to her bastard-born son who his father was. That truth hadn’t come to light until far later. His formative years, where such instruction would have been invaluable, had already passed him by. It had stunted his proficiency, but Ramsay had a vicious streak that allowed some level of aptitude for violence due to the sheer passion wielding a weapon gave, but that in no way gave him the competence that Jon demonstrated moments earlier. 

Fueled by the roiling fury of both Ser Alliser’s words and the insecurities he held about his own skillset for brandishing a sword, Ramsay did the only thing he knew to do to try and gain any sort of leverage against his new opponent, he attacked doggedly in hopes the man’s guard had been lowered enough for him to get in a proper blow. 

Though the force with which Ramsay drove his sword down into his shield again and again made the large man’s arm quiver upon impact, Rass did not lose his footing nor did he falter in the slightest. Instead he stood his ground, allowing Ramsay to hack away at his shield, which he held high covering his head and most of his upper torso resembling a tortoise half-way out of its shell.  

 _Go for his legs_. Jon thought and hoped that Ramsay would somehow pick up on his opponent’s weak spot which stood as clear to Jon as his own hand in front of his face. 

If Ramsay could have heard Jon's words through the fever pitch that pushed his assault, he would have gratefully taken the advice. As it was though, Ramsay continued his onslaught until he became so weary his sword arm ached from the delivered ferocity and expended energy. Once completely spent, his arm dropped to his side as if the weapon had grown ten times heavier. Ramsay realized vexingly that he was depleted without having made the big man in front of him even break a sweat. Swallowing hard, Ramsay’s wary eyes reflected a knowing defeat as they drew up to take in the malicious grin that spread across Rass’ countenance; in that moment both men knew how this fight was to finish. 

Pausing just long enough for his opponent to realize his impending doom, Rass swung his shield with full force into Ramsay’s chest knocking the wind out of him and sending him falling to the muddy ground. Hardly had he landed on his back before Rass had pulled back his leg and kicked him in the ribs, drawing out a short sharp cry of pain, “Get up, bastard!” the blonde man hissed excitedly.  

In an attempt to recover from the savage blows to his chest, Ramsay instinctively let go of his sword and shield rolling to his side and clutching himself.  

“I said: GET UP!” Rass kicked Ramsay again, this time hitting him in the stomach, then lifting his sword above his head aimed to drive it down on the now defenceless man at his feet.  

“ENOUGH!!!” Rass’ strike was halted mid-air as Jon’s voice boomed like rolling thunder through the courtyard.  

The lowborn recruit looked up, his dark brown eyes sparked with fire. For a moment he stared at Jon then shifted his gaze to Ser Alliser silently asking his permission to proceed.  

“I am the one giving the orders around here, Snow,” Ser Alliser’s eyes glinted in sadistic amusement as well as anticipation; it was clear that he hoped Jon would contradict him, perhaps even challenge him. “Or have you forgotten that… along with your place?” 

“I have not, Ser Alliser…” Jon pointed to Ramsay, who was laying still on the ground listening intently to their conversation with nostrils flaring and eyes locked on his opponent’s sword still hovering a few feet above his head like a bird of prey ready to strike, “…but of what use is he to our cause if he is injured on his first day here? Should our wounds not be inflicted by our enemy’s swords rather than of our own?”  

The old knight’s lips twitched sourly as his eyes narrowed, “Do you think our training is child’s play, boy? Recruits get bruises and cuts and - on occasion - their heads bashed in …it is as simple as that. Not that I would expect a steward to understand such things. Every day that passes, you grow softer and weaker under the Lord Commander’s wing.” He looked Jon up and down, scorn twisting his features, “Yes… how could _you_ possibly understand what it takes to shape a man into someone who can survive beyond the wall?”  

Jon was about to open his mouth and give his answer, to tell Ser Alliser that if he would only take him on a mission Jon could prove his worth as a ranger, but the knight had already lost interest in hearing his reply and simply held up his hand instead halting Jon’s words, “It matters none. I’ve seen what I needed, and the sight turns my stomach. This bastard is hardly worth the trouble of digging a grave.” He stood for a moment as if contemplating an important decision, then signalled for Rass to stand down. 

The sword wavered a moment longer before retracting away from Ramsay’s form. Once the danger of getting hewed down with the blunt end of a training weapon was removed, Ramsay flailed enfeebled muddy limbs in a sloppy gesture to regather his own discarded equipment and wobbly erected himself to stand. He subconsciously backed up to stand shoulder to shoulder with Jon, his only proven ally among his new crow brethren. Glancing at Jon to see if his face reflected the same disappointment of Ser Alliser, Ramsay saw that Jon’s stony gaze still lay affixed with Ser Alliser. The two spoke in an uncomfortable silence of stares alone, and for the first time since he’d arrived, Ramsay deferred to silence having felt more than humiliated enough for one day. 

The stare-down lasted several seconds before Ser Alliser finally broke the silence, “Snow,” he sneered grimacing as if the very name was venom on his tongue, “We have enough deadweight around here as it is – don’t need any more. I want to see progress with this one soon, otherwise I’ll have to find him a new partner that can fulfil the task.” He turned his head and nodded at Rass, “Him, perhaps.” Without waiting for a response, the knight then turned and walked away handing out harsh-sounding instructions to the nearby groups of recruits as he passed them by. 

Watching Ser Alliser make his way back to the podium, a devious smile came to play on Rass’ thin lips. Ignoring Jon’s presence, he lifted his sword and pointed it at Ramsay, “I’ll be seeing you again real soon,” he promised before hawking and spitting on the muddy ground between them like he had done when they first met, “Count on it.” Then, he too turned on his heel and walked away leaving Ramsay and Jon staring after him. 

 _Just what he needs_. Jon thought and swung his sword, signalling for Ramsay to get ready for another round. _More trouble._

 


	6. Rising Tensions

Chapter Six

Rising Tensions

Just as quickly as it had taken place, the fight was over, and everyone in the courtyard began to mill back to their previous instruction. Jon was ready to do the same, but Ramsay could only peer back over his shoulder and pour a smoldering rage at Rass' retreating back. He stared keenly his disgust as the beefy blonde sauntered through the crowd to settle back to squaring off with his previous partner before Ramsay could tear his eyes away and refocus on Jon who still patiently waited to begin anew.

The whole event had shaken Ramsay into a discontented funk; not that he hadn't already been feeling disgruntled before, but looking down at himself caked in mud, accompanied with the recent sting of embarrassment the filth represented, had brought the ill sentiment to an all new high. This had to be righted no matter the cost. Bastard or not, Ramsay couldn't allow his house to be called out and disgraced so fully in public. His mind's eye imagined the scornful reproach his father's face would project if he'd seen or heard about such a display, and the thought made a wave of nausea roll through Ramsay. Why did he still care so much what his father would think? The man had tossed him away to this wretched place, so his opinion (even imagined as it was) shouldn't matter, but it did.

A deep frown cemented itself upon his jowls as Ramsay growled at Jon, "This isn't training; this is a free-for-all!" He pointed at the podium where Ser Alliser was cawing out derisively at another group of recruits as his timber grew more hostile, "He thinks he knows what I've got, but none of you do! I would make him wilt under the flaying knife just as that dim brute!" Ramsay emphasized with a jerk of his head towards Rass' direction.

"Ramsay…" Jon began but stopped himself as he felt his face flush with anger. What was the man thinking? Had he not already been given the chance to prove his worth and was he not himself at fault that he failed to do so? Not only that but had every recruit, although free of fault themselves in the matter, not received punishment for Ramsay's blunder when he failed to show up for the morning call?

It wasn't about skipping a meal or even about the unfairness to which they had all been treated by Ser Alliser (Jon was not unfamiliar with going a long time on an empty stomach nor was he surprised of Ser Alliser's unjust behaviour towards them) - No, this was about Ramsay failing to count his blessings, to appreciate that he just escaped a swordfight with an opponent much stronger and vicious than himself without a dent in his skull to show for it, and about him not appearing the slightest bit remorseful for the trouble he had caused Jon and his fellow brethren.

The sort of thinking Ramsay displayed was that of a vengeful, stubborn child; not a man who took responsibility for his actions, and it was definitely something that could prove quite troublesome for both himself and Jon should it continue.  _But what of myself?_  A voice inside him objected.  _Did I not share some of the same thoughts when I first came here? Did I not think and say childish things when I felt wronged?_ He remembered how Ramsay had just taken a brutal beating and how Ser Alliser had mocked him, denigrated his linage and his skills as a fighter. Was Ramsay's anger not understandable under the circumstances? And had Jon not cause to show his new acquaintance at least some clemency for his threats and reckless behaviour?

Jon stood for a moment, weighing his words. When he finally opened his mouth to speak, the anger was gone, and his voice had taken on an authoritative tone, "None of us become master swordsmen overnight. It takes years of practice - years you have not had to perfect the discipline. You are clearly not without talent and can make a great fighter still, but you need to be patient and learn when to hold your tongue! Threats made against a superior could mean the gallows for you. Ser Alliser would tie the noose gladly - do not give him the satisfaction!"

The timbre that Jon addressed Ramsay with sent an immediate bur of vexation to furrow his brow, but as Jon's words scolded they also commended his raw ability, and that, Ramsay had not expected. It left Ramsay slightly perplexed by the man's manner with him still unsure whether to take his instruction as an insult or sound advice.

Intently regarding Jon's dark orbs, there was no malice to be found. All that Ramsay did see reflected back at him was the same seriousness and care Jon's voice projected. It unnerved him causing the wrinkles on Ramsay's forehead to soften as his wide blue eyes wavered back and forth absorbing fully the wisdom in Jon's statement. Chagrinned by his own brash declaration, Ramsay's eyes fell away. His pride wouldn't let him vocalize fault, but he did give the smallest nod of acknowledgement to state that Jon had been heard and that he wasn't disagreeing with him.

As Ramsay fell silent, apparently coming to his senses, Jon inwardly let out a sigh of relief, "First, I will teach you how to protect yourself using only the shield, then how to wield the sword properly like my father's bannerman, Ser Rodrik, taught me." Jon scoured Ramsay's face, searching for any sign of objection, but found none. "You will find it toilsome at first, and you may want to give up before we are done, but if you can find it in yourself to endure, the reward will be worth it in the end – you have my word." He lifted his sword to the ready, "Shall we begin?"

Ramsay took Jon's statement in numbly pausing to weigh his options and deciding that he did want the tutelage offered, he nodded lifting his shield and readied himself for Jon's instruction.

The training went on for several hours, interrupted only by a couple of water breaks at the nearby well. Ramsay, as it turned out, was a quick learner - quicker than most men Jon had sparred with - though sometimes he would on purpose overhear Jon's instructions and, in the hope of landing a strike resort to brutality instead. The savage attacks never once succeeded and usually just ended with either Jon blocking the blows with his shield or Ramsay tumbling to the ground when Jon moved to the side dodging his charge.

When the midday sun stood highest upon the sky, Ser Alliser called for the fighting to cease, "…and I don't want to see a single one of your ugly faces in the dining hall until supper time. Don't forget it, or there will be hell to pay." he reminded the crowd with a sneer before taking his leave. As soon as Ser Alliser was gone from sight, the mumbles among the recruits turned into loud talk as everyone started to converse back and forth. Jon noticed a few men glaring at him and Ramsay as they returned their swords to the heap of armaments, pulled off their jerkins, and tossed them on top of the others in the big sweaty pile that had gathered next to the podium.

It hadn't gone unnoticed by Ramsay that his fellow crows were casting less than friendly glowers in his direction. The smart thing would have been to remain humble, but he was tired, sore, and by this point hungry, and Ramsay was never good at prostration for anyone's sake let alone those considered on the same tier as himself. Brazen teeth smirked back an answer to their scowls,  _it's only a meal_ , he mused as he shucked his own gear off to hurl it onto the growing pile of leathers. Seeing that the mood was not dissipating but rising Ramsay's growing exasperation mounted, and he shot the throng a bitter sneer of his own scoffing inwardly as he rotated away from their penetrating gaze,  _they'll get over it._

Turning to face Jon, Ramsay's mien shifted mercurially to a smile. He straightened taking a regal stance as he proclaimed obnoxiously, "I don't think our brothers in arms are very pleased with today's lesson, Jon." Ramsay's grin widened playfully finding amusement in the disgruntlement of those who now affixed his back with animosity. Leaning in close, Ramsay uttered low enough for only Jon's ears as his eyes made a clandestine jerk to the side, an indication of who he was speaking about as if Jon could confuse the men he had so boldly referred to, "We should probably depart sooner rather than later. It's getting a mite unwelcoming down here."

 _He's certainly right about that_. Looking over Ramsay's shoulder, Jon had a clear view of Rass Toyne who was standing amidst a group of recruits, scowling back at him. The blonde man's anger hung in the air like lighting waiting to strike both bastards dead. After holding Rass' gaze for a few seconds, Jon finally turned his attention back to Ramsay and nodded in agreement, "I think it best if we did. Besides, the time has come for you to witness the glory of the wall anyway. I hope you don't mind heights."

 _Anywhere is better than here,_ Ramsay thought remotely as he scoffed, "Heights are no problem for me. Let's see this supposed glory."

The dissonance did not abate as Jon and Ramsay strode past the many scattered recruits, but none made a move to stop their progress towards the elevator. The grounds had become shaded as the noonday sun no longer beamed a direct beacon of warmth down upon them, and so the mob of men began dissipating from the courtyard to escape the chill that had begun to settle. The young boy manning the lift didn't hesitate to turn the wheel and raise the rickety box with the two bastards up into the air after Jon had instructed him where they needed to ascend, and as they rose, Ramsay stared down at the dispelling crowd with a firm frown planted on his face.

Not all of the men were as quick to depart; Rass and five others that encircled him had brought their attention to Jon and Ramsay's ascent talking amongst themselves and glaring heatedly at the two. Ramsay's eyes narrowed on Rass,  _keep thinking you've won this little bout, brute. This has only just begun._ This rumination brought a smile to cross Ramsay's face that only widened noting that his own expression had seemed to deepen the glowers on the faces of the men that watched he and Jon. Mockingly bored with their attention, Ramsay turned his sights away to take in the scenery of his new surroundings before settling on Jon with a lingering puzzlement as he asked in slight bewilderment, "You're better than most of this lot combined. How is it that you didn't make ranger?"

Torn between feeling flattered by the acknowledgement of his skills (something he had rarely received from anyone except his Lord father and Ser Rodrick) and feeling vexed of being denied what he had always thought was supposed to be his destiny, Jon shrugged at Ramsay's compliment. "Sam Tarley thinks that Lord Commander Mormont wanted to groom me for command, but I do believe he got it wrong." He looked down at the men watching them from the courtyard; their frames becoming increasingly smaller as the cage rose higher and higher in the air. Although he could no longer make out their features, he had no doubt they were looking up at them with faces that were anything less than friendly, "I believe that Ser Alliser ruined my chances because he despises me along with my heritage."

Shifting his sights to follow Jon's gaze, Ramsay grunted an annoyed acknowledgement, "I believe you have the right of it; it would seem he's got it out for the both of us." Ramsay's eyes squinted hatefully lip curling into a snarl as he shook his head vehemently in the negative snapping, "I'll accept no less than ranger. No offense, but I'll be no man's chamber pot maid!"

 _Is that how he regards my station? Like that of a chamber pot maid's?_  Jon felt his face flush, his anger rising slightly at Ramsay's comment but at the same time suspected that the man - at least this time around - spoke out of ignorance as opposed to ill intent. Besides, weren't those same thoughts on his rank, now deemed as offensive by himself, not ones he had once shared? When it came down to it, wasn't his irritation brought on by the fact that he himself still hadn't truly come to terms with his rank as steward, or perhaps was it the provocation stated by a man he barely knew and who in many ways was forgiven his lack of insightfulness when it came to matters of an order he had only recently joined?

"I am no maid," Jon stated firmly, and at the same time had to supress the urge to snap at Ramsay despite his decision to let the provocation slide, "…but I do tend to the Lord Commander's needs – that much is true." He pondered looking out through the metal bars of the cage at the snowflakes that whirled faster and faster around them as they neared the top of the wall. The sudden drop in temperature and gradual slowing of the creaking wheel above their heads revealed that they were almost at their journey's end. "I understand your wish to make ranger more than anyone, Ramsay, but I must caution you that even  _if_  you can best every man at Castle Black in combat, you still might find yourself a steward or a builder once Lord Mormont and the Grand Maester has made their picks. The wisdom of their decisions is not always for the rest of us to fathom but to accept as is our duty as men of the Night's watch."

As Jon spoke on a possible future as a steward or builder, Ramsay continued to shake his head unwilling to accede to such a fate as he dismissively scoffed, "Pfft. If the Grand Maester or lord commander makes such a grievous mistake, I will petition for them to reconsider. I won't be made a fool by men like them and be denied my due. Once I've proven my skills with a bow, they will see my worth outweighs that of a servant!" Inwardly, Ramsay also avowed,  _Or I will flee this wretched place to make my own way by threat of noose or not!_  His eyes narrowed angrily down at the group of men that he could only assume was Rass and the company of recruits he'd gathered to his side although from this height he couldn't really make them out over to hatefully imagine their smug faces. The men had not departed from milling about the courtyard, and the faint sounds of their raucous laughter carried up to even this height. Their joy annoyed Ramsay as his thoughts circled back to his humiliating encounter witnessed by too many eyes that he knew would use his defeat at Rass' hands to reference a lack of ability within him. As a bully himself, Ramsay was all too aware how such a displayed weakness would lead to testing his merit in the future for nothing more than to solidify his previous loss of face.

When Ramsay finished speaking, Jon gave a nod but said nothing. The continuous mention of his superior archery skills had left him intrigued to learn whether Ramsay was just exaggerating, or if he was in actual fact the excellent marksman his claims suggested. Jon had never mastered the bow quite as well as he had the longsword, but because he was at the core of his being quite competitive, he was now also curious as to if he could best Ramsay at the discipline he allegedly mastered so well.

Between the two of them, Jon's brother Robb, had always been the better archer, and although Jon knew that Robb was older and therefore had had more time to practice and perfect his skills, the fact that he wasn't the best at every fighting discipline still gnawed at his pride. Being the future of House Stark and Eddard Stark's heir was Robb's calling just as being a ranger was Jon's so being bested at what was essentially a warrior's field of study AND by none other than his own flesh and blood felt like a hard slap in the face to him.

The memory of his brother in the courtyard at Winterfell placing arrow after arrow in the bullseye like it was child's play, and their Lord father looking on from the balcony with pride in his eyes reserved only for his oldest son, evoked forbidden feelings of envy that still made the shame burn deep within him.

 _You brag a lot, Ramsay Snow_. Jon glanced over at his companion who was staring down at the now miniature looking Castle Black with a speculative frown on his face. Although he was not privy to the man's treacherous thoughts, Jon could still sense that something of a serious nature was occupying Ramsay's mind but what it was exactly, he decided, was none of his concern.  _Who knows?_   _Maybe someday I'll challenge your claims_.

Like a giant stepping on an old wooden plank, the hoist wheel above creaked loudly, creating a deafening echo that swept along the side of the ice-covered wall. The cage stopped levitating, then swung lazily back and forth on its hinges a few times before coming to a halt.

As Jon opened the door to the cage and stepped out onto the wooden ramp that connected the elevator with the wall itself, powdered snow blew in a mild squall against his face. It was a fine day for giving Ramsay his first glance at the world he was about to join. Although snow was whirling all around and the sun was smothered in grey sky, the cold was biting but bearable and the visibility was still sufficient enough to see the ground 700 feet beneath them.

Leading Ramsay across the wall to the northern side past two men huddling near a fireplace, Jon stopped near the edge nodding towards the vast plane of pine trees and snow-covered rocks that stretched out before them, "This is the land beyond the wall and what we're sworn to protect the people of the Seven Kingdoms against.  _This_  is the realm of the Wildlings."

Ramsay had noticed the decline in temperature immediately. Clutching his arms about himself and rubbing vigorously, he mentally wished that the wind wasn't whipping about so fiercely. He'd wanted to join the other two men clustered about the only source of heat, but despite himself, he was rather curious of what sights overlooked this wall of ice. Digesting Jon's words, ' _realm of the Wildlings,'_  Ramsay's eyes moved to dance across the horizon taking in the expanse that spread before him in slight awe. Having never been so high up prior Ramsay felt a rush of vertigo and took a mild step backwards in caution. His brow lifted in surprise peering down at the bottom of the cliff they were perched, "That's a far way down. I wonder how many recruits grew sick of the gruel this place serves deciding they'd rather plummet to their demise over eat another bite of it?" Ramsay was smirking at Jon obviously quite amused by the morbid joke and watching to see if Jon found humour in the macabre.

And that he did. For the first time since they met the day before where he had offered his hand to Ramsay in vain, a half smile crossed Jon's face and his dark eyes shone warmly, "Aye, it is pretty bad, isn't it?" He chuckled lightly, allowing himself to be distracted from his earlier thoughts of Robb, "…though I haven't heard of anyone jumping by their own accord because of the grub. Besides, if a man wants to end his own life, all he has to do is desert which – thankfully - rarely happens."

The mention of desertion and risk of death sent the hackles to raise on the back of Ramsay's neck, and as much as he'd wished to keep the smug smile he'd afforded Jon in lieu of the morbid chuckle they'd shared, his grin wavered at the thought of consequence to the action he was already contemplating. His blue eyes affixed Jon with a seriousness wanting to know more as a means to make a man disappear than for any historic purposes, "You say no one has jumped on their own accord, but has anyone been pushed?"

At the change in subject, Jon's smile, too, faded into seriousness. "What mishaps preceded my arrival I cannot say; all I know is that no one has fallen to their deaths – accidental or otherwise – while I've been here." He paused and looked down at the snow-covered ground hundreds upon hundreds of feet below. The thought of plummeting to such a brutal death, shattering every single bone in one's body upon impact, made an odd little shiver run down his spine. He wondered how long such a fall would take, what strange last thoughts went through a man's mind during that time. "But perhaps Sam knows something I don't. History is written down in Grand Maester Aemon's books which Sam is a caretaker of. If you want to know more concerning past matters, you should speak with him - or the Grand Maester himself."

The fat soft man might be worth grilling later Ramsay mused absently not really wanting to have much to do with the Grand Maester. The rotund recruit though, he would be easily steered to garner any information for him if he pushed the right buttons Ramsay was more than certain. Reading wasn't really his forte, not that he couldn't; he'd made it a point to learn enough to read and write, so he could be informed when he had to be, but that was not to say he enjoyed the practice. Ramsay rolled his eyes replying with a cynical tone, "Well, that's rather boring. I was hoping for some sort of taboo tale." He refocused his sights back on Jon, "So why the watch? Why in all the realms would you come here? Or was it not your doing?" Ramsay was curious as to what would motivate any man to come here of his own volition and wondered if Jon perhaps was also cast out from his house and sent packing as he had been.

"It was by my own conviction; no one forced me to join…" Jon started but his voice trailed off as the memory of Lady Catelyn entered his mind and made him swallow hard. How she had shunned him, blamed him for being born a bastard; a ceaseless reminder that her husband had betrayed her trust and laid down with another woman. There had always been a cold distance between them, and from the very moment Jon was old enough to gather his own thoughts he had known that she considered him unwanted and that Winterfell was but a temporary roof over his head, not a home. It might never have been spoken out loud, but Jon knew all the same that when he had come of age and was able to fend for himself, he had to leave one way or the other. Lady Catelyn wanted him gone, and Jon knew his place well enough to bow to her wishes.

"...though someone did help convince me." Jon finally continued, forcing his voice to remain steady despite the bitterness welling in his throat. "My father used to say that in the Night's Watch even a bastard can rise high, and my uncle, Benjen, who was a ranger, that they needed men like me."

"Needed men like you…" Ramsay scoffed at the notion shaking his head as his lip curled is disgust, "Fodder for wars beyond the wall is all this shithole wants us for. That's no honor, that's prolonged suicide. Don't even get me started about vows of expected celibacy! How can they expect that a man would stay loyal to a cause when never having the opportunity to wet his cock again?"

"You speak of things you do not know," answered Jon, who could no longer hold his anger back, hearing Ramsay insult his calling and the foundation on which he had built his future. His voice rang out loudly, shrill enough to get his point across but not so piercing that the men nearby could hear, but it betrayed his irritation clearly, "Our cause is as righteous as it is necessary! You may not have joined us out of your own free will but regardless of your past crimes and misconducts there is honor to be reclaimed here still, Ramsay- even for a bastard."

The tension became blatant as Jon's counter charged the testiness in Ramsay given the soreness of the subject they were contesting. Ramsay's teeth gleaned in a snarl as he stomped closer coming within inches of Jon's face, "You speak of righteous causes and honour when this brigade is nothing more than lost degenerates doomed to rot balls deep in a waste land of ice and snow! What a farce!" Ramsay's fists clenched in his rage, although his anger wasn't truly directed at Jon over the fact that it poked the festering wound within reminding him once more how he'd been disowned and banished here. His mien shifted as his mind rolled over this fact, and Ramsay took a step back as his angry squinting slits receded to be replaced with an indignant eye roll and a huff of aggravation. He growled under his breath working unsuccessfully to regain a composure of indifference, "Your speeches of chivalry fall on deaf ears. All I see here is meaningless sacrifice to a cause that ceased being pertinent a thousand years ago. You're a fool if you believe otherwise."

Jon felt his fists clench, the fingernails digging into his palm. By the gods how he wanted to grab Ramsay and shake some sense into him, to tell him of Othor, the ranger they had found frozen in the woods and brought back to Castle Black for burial, and how he had suddenly come back to life and attacked The Lord Commander and Jon himself. How Jon had driven his sword straight through his chest and how Othor didn't even seem to notice it (or anything else really, until they had lit him on fire); to tell him about the Wildling hordes who occasionally would climb the wall and proceed to rape, kill and pillage the defenceless villages they came upon; and how the Night's Watch was the only thing that stood between these savages and innocent people getting slaughtered.

Although he was yet to experience this kind of brutality first hand, Ramsay was a northerner and would most surely had heard the stories of merciless Wildling raiders growing up at the Dreadfort… so didn't he care about saving the lives of innocents? Men, women and children? Perhaps not, given what manners and lack of consideration for others Ramsay had displayed on several occasions since his arrival, and if that was the case, Jon doubted if there was anything at all he could do or say at this point to change the man's mind and make him realise the weight of the cause he was soon to swear his fealty.

A moment passed in silence. Jon took a deep breath, let it out then looked Ramsay dead in the eye. "Every man is entitled to have his doubts about the burdens we bear and the sacrifices we make as part of our duty, but in your words, I find only an ignorant boy courting treason." Ramsay was about to say something, but Jon cut him off before he could utter a word, "I suggest you never speak your mind like that to anyone else here. Should your opinions become known to the Lord Commander – or worse yet Ser Alliser - you might find yourself in more trouble than you can handle." After one last glare, he turned his back to Ramsay, "I'm returning to our chambers. Join me or linger here a bit… the choice is yours." Jon stood for a moment awaiting Ramsay's reply, and when none came he began walking back towards the elevator feeling the ice-cold stare of the man burning holes in the back of his skull.

The snow crunched the receding sound of Jon's departure, and Ramsay remained stock still with teeth gnashing and fists clenched. He wanted to spit on the man's retreating back for insulting him with the title, ' _boy'_ , but the wisdom in his fellow crow's words rang clear that the venom that dripped from his own tongue would only be rewarded with further hardships to a battle he could not win. It was of no use to argue pointless logic, so Ramsay remained to wallow in his anger with a silent 'Fuck you' to Jon's retreating form as a last act of defiance. Silence reigned between them until the creaking wheel of the lift signalled to Ramsay that Jon had begun his decent, and he was now left alone to simmer on their conversation.

Sighing, Ramsay turned back to look out over the expanse of sky shadowed with a haze of blue that painted over the dotted forested tundra below. It was desolate, and Ramsay found it fitting matching the way he felt inside to be a hostage of this place so far from the home he'd known. He'd always wanted to travel, but this wasn't his idea of the grand adventures his boyhood had imagined.

A cold gust of frigid air flurried up the base of the wall, and Ramsay backed away from the ledge turning to return to the elevator to descend as well; he'd rather escape the cold than to remain here festering in his own aggravation. His stomach was growling a reminder of the missed meal Ser Alliser had taken away, but Ramsay wasn't about to go hungry as the man had intended. He smirked to himself remembering a store room of dried goods as Jon and he had entered the galley the night before. With a little sleight of hand, Ramsay was more than sure that he could nab himself a loaf of bread or some other pocketable snack from the kitchens now that most of the men in the camp had moved to their bunk houses to rest before the next bout of training began or to finish out their daily tasks that needed attending before dinner was prepped and served well after dusk several hours from now.

Upon reaching the ground, Ramsay bounded towards the kitchens pausing momentarily in the doorway to note very few mingled about as he'd suspected. Those that were present heeded him no mind, and Ramsay used this lack of interest to slip into the back room, and with a peripheral glance, he reached forward to swipe a hunk of drying jerky from a hook quickly concealing the stolen meat into the folds of his cloak. His forehead beaded with sweat as Ramsay's eyes shifted nervously about fearful to be caught red-handed, but as he moved away from the room and back outside, he knew for sure he'd gotten away with the theft. Ramsay let go a self-satisfied laugh as he whipped out the jerky and tore off a chunk savouring his personal victory. Sauntering over to one of the darkened tanner's tents, he leisurely entered the vacated space deciding here was as good a place as any to finish eating his score in peace, then he would return to his quarters to rest on a full belly secretly gleeful that the rest of them would have suffered a fate he had not.


End file.
